


But What Of Home

by letterfromtrenwith



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: AU, F/M, WWI AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 22:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18214715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromtrenwith/pseuds/letterfromtrenwith
Summary: A George/Elizabeth WWI AUCaptain George Warleggan has a few days' precious leave, and he has only one destination in mind.





	But What Of Home

Only the merest slivers of light were visible at the house’s windows. The Zeppelins had not yet strayed this far south, but the Cornish authorities had chosen to enforce blackout restrictions this close to the coast, especially on buildings like this.

  
The great old house of Cusgarne may not have appeared the most strategically important, but the ancient Chynoweth family seat had been requisitioned by the War Office, and turned into a hospital for wounded soldiers in 1915. Other great houses of the district had also been pressed into service: Tehidy was also a hospital, while Trenwith had been requisitioned for some mysterious purpose, and was now surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards, the family sent to live at their original home at Nampara. His uncle had attempted to resist the possession of their own home, Cardew, but as he was not the legal owner, he had had no hope. Much to his annoyance, it had become a boy’s school, taking the boys displaced from Truro School, itself taken over by the Admiralty.

  
Wrapping his overcoat more tightly around himself, George shivered. He could see his breath in the moonlight, although he instinctively kept to the tree line, used now to seeking cover. It may be cold, but he was extraordinarily grateful that his leave had come this time of year, as much as it was with guilt that he thought of the men of his unit still camped in that frozen mud, breaking the ice on their water supplies every morning, warmed only by the pathetic tea they could brew on their stoves. Unbidden, an image of Ted Carkeek, wrapped in the endearingly messily knitted muffler his young sweetheart Betty had sent him. The same muffler that had eventually been soaked with the boy’s blood.

  
George forced the memory away - he was here tonight to escape such things, so far as he could. Those thoughts could haunt him all they wished as he lay on his miserable excuse for a bed in the officers' bunker, but not here. Here was the golden thread of hope which kept him sane through all of this madness.

  
A shuttered lantern hung over the back door - a servants' entrance once upon a time - and he pulled the bell, hoping that one of the nurses would answer, and not one of the household. The Chynoweths had remained at the house; the matriarch, Joan, loathed the presence of the soldiers, especially those who were not officers. She would dislike George’s visit even more. There was no chance she would be answering the back door, of course, but one of her remaining staff could well. In the end, it was one of the family who let him in, but one he was glad to see. Morwenna Chynoweth was still dressed in her Women’s Land Army uniform, the daring trousers yet another affront to her aunt’s delicate sensibilities. She’d shed her long coat, however, a knitted shrug over her blouse instead.

  
“Good Lord, George, is that really you?!”

  
“Indeed it is, my dear.”

  
“You don’t know how glad I am to see you, and in one piece, as well. Not much of that around here, nowadays.” Some might have considered such a remark to be cruel or insensitive, but George knew how jests helped to fend off the worst of it. Morwenna may not have been at the front, but still living here, she would see her fair share of the consequences. Young men they had both known for years would not come home again, or had returned as shadows of their former selves.

  
The kitchen was still surprisingly busy for the time of night, a fire crackling in the great old fireplace, several staff - nurses, porters, military aides - sitting around the scrubbed table clutching steaming mugs. As George entered behind Morwenna, all of the Army men snapped to attention, guiltily buttoning up disarrayed uniforms, one attempting to shove a hip flask into his pocket.

  
“At ease, men. I’m not your CO.” With some relieved smiles and muttering, the men sat back down. Although men was pushing it, at least two of them looked no older than 17. At almost 30, George was getting close to being the oldest man in his unit, and he doubted it was much different even back here, bar the most senior officers.

  
“Relax, boys, Capt. Warleggan’s just here to visit his sweetheart.” Morwenna laughed, giving him a teasing nudge. “I would ask if you wanted tea, but I think you’d rather not linger. She’s in her room.”

  
With a wave of thanks, George hurried out, dress boots sounding alarmingly loud on the hard floors and the uncovered servants’ staircase. The clatter was almost a comfort - he found the quiet of Cornwall oppressive when he returned home, used to the constant noise: shelling and gunfire, distant or close, the putter of ambulances or dispatch riders, sometimes even the hushed conversation of the Germans from their trenches, depending where you were.

  
Most of the house's bedrooms were in use for the patients or the staff, but the majority of the family rooms had been kept for their use. His footsteps were deadened now by the carpet which, he could see even in the low light of one or two sconces, was beginning to wear in the middle. He had no idea how old it was, but it had probably never seen so much foot traffic in its life. The door he sought was closed, and he tapped quietly, not wanting to alert anyone else of his presence.

  
“Elizabeth? It’s George.” He heard a faint rustle inside the room, and then the door was pulled open.

  
“George!” Even in her plain navy dress, her hair simply pinned back, Elizabeth was breath-taking. The small photograph of her he carried in his pocket was beautiful, but did not do her justice, especially as she was not smiling in it. Her smile lit up her face, increasing her beauty yet further. She smiled at him now, as he slipped into her room. Visiting a woman in her private rooms would have been outrageous not so long ago, but all of that was yet another thing the war had made seem unimportant. Considering what could happen at any moment, wasting time worrying about propriety seemed foolish. “Why did you not say you were coming?”

  
“I didn't know until this morning. I was only supposed to be in London, but then they granted m

e a few days’ leave. I caught the train straight here.” He reached up to brush a loose curl off her face, and she leant into the touch.  
“I was so worried. Your letters haven’t come through in months.” She shook her head. “I know the post is not good, but every day I’m frightened…”

  
“Shhh, my love. Didn’t I promise you?” He’d made the promise the last night before he’d left for the first time - that he would always come back to her. He knew it was an impossible promise to keep, and he was sure many men had made such a promise, but he clung to it nevertheless. Every night that he listened to the shelling grow closer, every time he put the whistle to his mouth to signal the charge.

  
“Yes. Yes, you did.” She stroked the thick lapels of his greatcoat, which was becoming rather warm. Sliding her hands underneath, she stepped closer. “Now, let’s not talk anymore.”

  
~

  
It was still dark outside when George’s eyelids fluttered open, perhaps 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning by his estimation. He’d become good at telling the time by the light, something he would have had no idea about a few years ago. His trench watch was on the bureau, but he would have to disturb Elizabeth to reach it. She slept next to him, her head on his outstretched arm, the blankets gathered around her waist. He watched her for a few moments, her face soft and serene in the remaining glow of the fire. She’d blown out the candles before they’d gotten into bed - the Army had electrified part of the house, much to the displeasure of Mrs Chynoweth, but not the family rooms.

  
So far as he could see, Elizabeth’s room was relatively unchanged since his last visit, save that the vase of flowers on her dresser were poinsettias, not the bright spring blooms she’d had last time. For the sake of the patients, the Army had left the gardens relatively untouched, hoping they would be a pleasant environment for the wounded men. Her books and ornaments seemed much the same. There was a little wooden boat on the mantelpiece that he had not seen before, although he knew where it had come from. One of the patients had given her that; a young corporal who had lost a leg in an explosion, he’d been a carpenter by trade and had found some solace in practicing his skills. All of the staff had received little whittled gifts, even the medical director - a stern man by all accounts - proudly displaying a smartly carved horse on his desk.

  
Her nurse’s uniform hung neatly on the wardrobe door, a little ghostly as the firelight flickered across it. Her mother had taken Elizabeth’s decision to volunteer for Queen Alexandra’s Military Nursing Service as a sort of personal affront, strongly believing that her daughter should spend the war as Joan had expected her to spend her time before it - socialising and searching for a husband. Of course, she had found the latter herself, even if George was not her mother’s ideal choice. The Warleggans may have been wealthy, but they were not distinguished and Mrs Chynoweth was one of a certain coterie of individuals who seemed to regard the war as a distasteful business, and soldiers, no matter their rank, as beneath proper notice.

  
Elizabeth’s engagement ring glistened softly on her hand where it lay on the bedsheet between them. They had been engaged for almost two years now, quite a shockingly long time by some standards. He was sure her mother hoped that they would break it off eventually, or that the Germans would do the job for them. Then again, Mrs Chynoweth did not know about the nights he spent in Elizabeth’s bed when he could return home.

  
Unconsciously, he had stretched slightly, and Elizabeth stirred, her eyelids fluttering. He held still so as to let her fall back to sleep, but she opened her eyes, frowning a little as she awoke, and then smiling sleepily at him. Turning onto his side, he raised his free hand to stroke her hair.

  
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  
“It’s all right. We shouldn’t be wasting what little time we have sleeping, anyhow.” She took his hand in hers, bringing it to her lips.

  
“We cannot stay awake for four days on end.” He laughed softly, letting their fingers intertwine where she still held onto his hand.

“Only four?” Her eyes became sad, her sweet, soft mouth turning down at the corners.

  
“I am afraid so. I must leave Monday morning at the latest.” Elizabeth let go of his hand and shifted closer, cuddling into him. He wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. He savoured the silkiness of her hair, the softness of her skin, the scent of her, the sound of her breathing. All of the things he conjured up in the cold and the dark and the mud.

  
“Every poor, mutilated man they bring in here makes me hate this war more. Hate the generals and the politicians who sit at their big desks and send them off to die.” Her voice was barely above a murmur, muffled by their embrace, but he heard her. “But, as selfish as it is of me, I hate them most for keeping you away from me. Every patient, every telegram, I pray it is not you and I am relieved when it isn’t, until I remember that whoever he is, he is loved by someone, and I feel cruel again, imagining that every mother and sweetheart and wife and daughter doesn’t think the same things I do.”

  
“Elizabeth…” He said nothing more for a while, running his hand gently up and down her back. “I want you to marry me.”

  
“But - ” She pulled away to look up at him, and he saw that she had been crying. Softly, he brushed the tears from her cheeks. “But we are already engaged?”

“No, Elizabeth. I mean that I want you to marry me before I go back. We have kept delaying, pretending we’ll wait until the war is over, but in truth I have no idea if it will ever be over. It certainly doesn’t feel like it from where I see it. I don’t want to wait anymore, I want you to be my wife. If the worst does happen - ” He cut off her protest. “I know the promise I made, and I swear that I will fight every second to keep it, but we both know there are no guarantees now. If the worst happens, I want you to have my name, and my pension, and my inheritance, everything that will go along with being my wife.”

“But - but how can we get married before Monday?”

“Morwenna’s father is a deacon, isn’t he? We can ask him to telegram the bishop for a special license. I’ll beg a despatch rider to fetch it - or I’ll go myself if I have to. So, will you? Marry me, that is?” He searched her face, for any sign of doubt or misgiving, but there was none, and his heart soared. She was looking at him the exact way she had when he first proposed to her. Leaning forward, she kissed him once, firmly.

“Of course I will, but - ” She took his face in her hands, and kissed him again, this time more softly. “But I want you to know, that I do not want your pension or your inheritance. I do not even care about your name, so much as I will love it. All that I want, when this terrible thing is over and done with, is you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
